In honor of . . . well, nothing, really, I’m presenting the first bi-annual PrettyFakes Booze Week, wherein we discuss and expound upon our favorite alcoholic stand-bys and formulae. Okay: that’s not the truth. The truth is I got really drunk Saturday whilst reading a fun book I got on remainder at a chain store—Big Shots: The Men Behind the Booze—and I ended up drawing things I have drank (have drunk? Drunked? Dammit) before, not necessarily stuff I liked. It was just stuff that was fun to tell a story about, like the time I threw up an Irish Car Bomb. Um, back into the pint glass. (that’s Friday’s entry).
The little toons also get a little wobbly as I go along, because I was, you know, drunk. So bear with me and feel free to tell me yr favorite drinking stories.
p.s.: Does it make me feel intellectually inferior to Professor Fury that the work I’ve made this week is ink-and-crayon drawings of booze, while he has explored the sometimes frustrating mechanics of protest and a zuvembie-Upton Sinclair, and Ms. Shearer herself has dropped by to note with appreciation his thoughtful review of her novel The Celestial Jukebox?
Oh, mais oui.
in highschool, it was everclear and jungle juice, and if you blew really quickly onto a lighter after drinking a bunch really fastly, you could see some torch action.
oh, and bobby sunshine made me my first fuzzy navel at his house during the summer before the 11th grade, while we were watching days of our lives and eating jello chocolate mousse.
Send one over here, barkeep.
Please oh please someday do a Martini strip! Even if it has vodka in it . . .
Ha! Bulb, I thought of you once while reading that book, because the writer implores the reader to drink martinis, “even if they are Vodkatinis, you charlatan.”
Aw, most of my drinking stories are too embarassing to tell. I’d never tell the one about the time I was 18 and drove across the state line to Louisiana and got drunk on Zima while listening to a friend’s band, then threw up on my friend’s dad’s shoes, then leaned against the building singing Springsteen songs while Contessa “comforted” (read: laughed at) me, then had to be carried up to my dorm room by Contessa’s then-boyfriend. My lips are sealed!
Friday can’t come soon enough.
remember that time we got a ‘sidecar’ at that bar on the square in oxford? the one with the nameplates on the bar?
Y’all, don’t kick me out of the cool kids club, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a screwdriver. I know! A fuzzy navel, yes.
Well James Bond drinks vodka martinis, so they can’t be all that bad. of course, in the books they’re “stirred not shaken”!
What I detest are these new sweet drinks called Martinis because they choose to serve them in a martini glass. That’s like calling a margarita an old fashioned because of the glassware you choose. All these Appletini-type things are the fruity umbrella drinks of the new millennium . . . blecccchhhhh!
Prof…Zima? Wow. Yikes.
My favorite Zima story: my friend’s brother—a football coach in an Alabama town—ordered a Zima, and the waiter brought him a Shirley Temple.
In regards to your inferiority to the Prof, well, who has had more responses to his post, hmmm?
But then again, writing about alcohol surely guarantees a big response.
Panderer.
The first time I had a screwdriver, I received extra credit for Carskadon’s Intro to Psychology class.
Oh, Dotty!! You’re absolutely right. Tomorrow there will be Polaroids with haikus in order to return to my normal, less-popular self!
Sally: that story is gold. Our pal Hud once ordered a Woodchuck and the server told him that a bunch of cheerleaders had come in and cleaned them right out; would he like a glass of milk, instead?
Best server. Ever.